my head.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t seem to get it together.”
“Have you ever thought about your drinking? How maybe it’s becoming a problem?”
“It’s kind of a family trait,” I said. And as I spoke I knew how lame that sounded. “It’s just sort of how I am.”
“Or how you cope,” she said.
Then she really floored me. “What happened with you and your drama teacher?”
“Nothing. It was just this thing that … I’d rather not talk about it.”
She nodded.
“Seth, if you promise to do something about your drinking, you can stay here and keep working on the farm.”
That surprised me so much that I looked at her.
“Many people have substance abuse issues. It’s simply something you’re going to have to tackle. Get in there and manage it.”
She sounded so sure.
“As long as your drinking doesn’t interfere with your work again, I will allow our arrangement to continue.”
She reached out and put a hand on my forearm. Her fingers were cool and her touch was like that Noxzema cream my mom used to use.
“Seth, you are unlimited potential. I want you to remember that.”
“I don’t feel like unlimited anything, except maybe an unlimited disaster.” There was this whiny note in my voice that I hated. When Keith Richards had to talk to the band about being a dope fiend and a drunk, I bet he didn’t whine.
“Maybe you can look for an outpatient treatment program or get some counseling or something.”
Fuck that, was my immediate response, but that would have sounded ungrateful.
“Maybe I could do treatment by correspondence,” I said. “Like online with homework and stuff. You could supervise.”
“Is there such a thing?” she asked.
“Probably. And anyway, people open treatment centers all the time. Like as businesses. Maybe you could do that in addition to your farming.”
She smiled. Her teeth were extra white and probably not from bleaching but from inner purity or something.
“I don’t think we need to go that far,” she said. “I’m going to leave it to you to find a solution. In the meantime, there’s plenty here to keep you busy.”
I was going to tell her how grateful I was that she wasn’t going to make me homeless, but before I could get any words out, Phil lunged for my throat and I had to scramble for the bathroom. I nearly knocked Prudence off her chair in my hurry. When I finished puking, she was gone. But I felt human enough to get dressed and lug my laptop outside, although I was too sick to actually turn it on. The thing is old as rocks, it weighs nearly as much as my tower, and the battery only lasts about twenty minutes and I didn’t have the strength to get the extension cord organized.
As I sat there on the porch, random images from the day before floated into my mind. I couldn’t remember much of what happened. I’m a pretty bad blackout drinker and even though it freaks me out to lose chunks of time, the reality is that a lot of my memories are better off forgotten or suppressed or erased or whatever it is that happens when a person blacks out. Sometimes I can’t remember stuff that happened even before I started drinking. It’s like my blackouts scrub memories on both sides of a drinking session.
I know I talked to the cute lightbulb clerk when I went to the store with Earl. And after I drank some of that rotgut homemade wine, Iwent back to Home Depot with Prudence. I think I wanted to try and talk to the girl again. I don’t know why. I guess it was the way she looked at me and didn’t know me or my story. It’s nice, when someone looks at you like you might be cool or have something interesting to say and not like you’re that guy who had that extremely fucked-up thing happen to him. That’s where my memory starts to skip, like a scratched CD. A few images pop up: the look on the girl’s face when I asked her some question. I hoped I didn’t say anything dirty to her. I had this sense that Mel Gibson was
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I just can’t seem to get it together.”
“Have you ever thought about your drinking? How maybe it’s becoming a problem?”
“It’s kind of a family trait,” I said. And as I spoke I knew how lame that sounded. “It’s just sort of how I am.”
“Or how you cope,” she said.
Then she really floored me. “What happened with you and your drama teacher?”
“Nothing. It was just this thing that … I’d rather not talk about it.”
She nodded.
“Seth, if you promise to do something about your drinking, you can stay here and keep working on the farm.”
That surprised me so much that I looked at her.
“Many people have substance abuse issues. It’s simply something you’re going to have to tackle. Get in there and manage it.”
She sounded so sure.
“As long as your drinking doesn’t interfere with your work again, I will allow our arrangement to continue.”
She reached out and put a hand on my forearm. Her fingers were cool and her touch was like that Noxzema cream my mom used to use.
“Seth, you are unlimited potential. I want you to remember that.”
“I don’t feel like unlimited anything, except maybe an unlimited disaster.” There was this whiny note in my voice that I hated. When Keith Richards had to talk to the band about being a dope fiend and a drunk, I bet he didn’t whine.
“Maybe you can look for an outpatient treatment program or get some counseling or something.”
Fuck that, was my immediate response, but that would have sounded ungrateful.
“Maybe I could do treatment by correspondence,” I said. “Like online with homework and stuff. You could supervise.”
“Is there such a thing?” she asked.
“Probably. And anyway, people open treatment centers all the time. Like as businesses. Maybe you could do that in addition to your farming.”
She smiled. Her teeth were extra white and probably not from bleaching but from inner purity or something.
“I don’t think we need to go that far,” she said. “I’m going to leave it to you to find a solution. In the meantime, there’s plenty here to keep you busy.”
I was going to tell her how grateful I was that she wasn’t going to make me homeless, but before I could get any words out, Phil lunged for my throat and I had to scramble for the bathroom. I nearly knocked Prudence off her chair in my hurry. When I finished puking, she was gone. But I felt human enough to get dressed and lug my laptop outside, although I was too sick to actually turn it on. The thing is old as rocks, it weighs nearly as much as my tower, and the battery only lasts about twenty minutes and I didn’t have the strength to get the extension cord organized.
As I sat there on the porch, random images from the day before floated into my mind. I couldn’t remember much of what happened. I’m a pretty bad blackout drinker and even though it freaks me out to lose chunks of time, the reality is that a lot of my memories are better off forgotten or suppressed or erased or whatever it is that happens when a person blacks out. Sometimes I can’t remember stuff that happened even before I started drinking. It’s like my blackouts scrub memories on both sides of a drinking session.
I know I talked to the cute lightbulb clerk when I went to the store with Earl. And after I drank some of that rotgut homemade wine, Iwent back to Home Depot with Prudence. I think I wanted to try and talk to the girl again. I don’t know why. I guess it was the way she looked at me and didn’t know me or my story. It’s nice, when someone looks at you like you might be cool or have something interesting to say and not like you’re that guy who had that extremely fucked-up thing happen to him. That’s where my memory starts to skip, like a scratched CD. A few images pop up: the look on the girl’s face when I asked her some question. I hoped I didn’t say anything dirty to her. I had this sense that Mel Gibson was
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